


Goodnight

by sparrow_spoons



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, L’manburg - Fandom, Wilbur Soot - Fandom, l'manberg - Fandom
Genre: Bye bye l’manburg, Dadza, Insomnia, November 16, Wilbur and Philza Angst, Wilbur dies sorry, l'manberg, l'manburg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:48:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29395752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow_spoons/pseuds/sparrow_spoons
Summary: Wilbur had always had insomnia.When he was a child, his father lulled him to sleep with a song about a fabled city, L’manburg.Now, it’s the 16th, and Wilbur is finally ready to say goodnight.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Goodnight

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> Warnings for sorta graphic descriptions of violence and death, stabbing etc we all know what happened on the 16th lol

Wilbur had always had insomnia. 

It started when he was a kid- Phil woke up to small hands shaking his wings and an even smaller voice whispering his name. 

“Wil?” He muttered. “What- it’s so late-“ a glance at the clock on the wall provided him a time. “It’s 2:30 in the morning, Wil, what do you-“

“I can’t sleep.”

Phil dragged himself to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. “You can’t-? Wilbur, please, it’s so early, can you keep trying?”

The small boy just stood there and shuffled his feet. Phil noticed that he really didn’t seem tired, and after another glance at the clock, patted the bed in front of him.

“It’s okay Wil, come on, we don’t have to sleep yet. What do you want to talk about?”

Wilbur hopped up on the bed next to his dad with a smile and started rambling on about books and music and wind and whatever else came to his mind. Phil tried his best to stay awake for his son, but gods it was so early, and he’d had such a long day, and he inevitably started to nod off around 4:00.

“...Dad? I don’t want to say goodnight yet.” 

It was spoken so quietly, but it rocked the winged man to his bones. His son sat in front of him, sniffling now, and Phil’s mind raced to come up with a solution that could get both of them the sleep they needed. What had Wil been talking about? Wind, arrows, books... music!

“It’s alright. Here, come sit next to me. I’m going to sing you a song my mother used to sing to me. It’s about brave heroes and a long lost city, I think you’ll like it.”

The small boy wiped his nose on the sleeve of his yellow pajamas and curled up next to his father, safe in the embrace of his wings. 

“What’s the city called, dad?”

“L’manburg.”

I heard there was a special place,  
Where men could go to emancipate,  
The brutality  
And the tyranny  
Of their rulers...

Wilbur was asleep by the second verse. Phil leaned back with a smile, careful not to jostle his son, and slept too. 

Wilbur had always suffered from insomnia.

It plagued him worse than ever now, exiled from the nation he’d built, sent to die in disgrace in a ravine. Granted, he had Tommy and Techno, but they did nothing to help him sleep. So at night he wandered the forests, picking sugarcane for paper or mushrooms for Tommy’s lunch the next day. 

Some nights, he climbed to the tops of trees to watch the stars.  
Some nights, he longed for the soothing songs that his father had lulled him to sleep with when he was a child.  
Some nights, he wrapped his coat tighter around himself and imagined he was wrapped in his father’s wings, small and safe and innocent. 

The sunrise always brought him back to reality. 

It was the dawn of the 16th, and the sunrise seemed brighter than usual. 

By midday, it didn’t matter.  
Wilbur was in a dark room, far from the sun, staring at a button. The button. 

“What are you doing?”

Wilbur whipped around. 

“Phil?”

“What are you doing.”

Suddenly, Wilbur was a child again, tiny under his fathers gaze, longing for the security promised by the wings filling the tunnel. He took a step forward, then a step back. He still had a job to do.

Phil took a few cautious steps forward. His son was so different than the day he left, proud and optimistic, off to start his own nation. “It’ll be wonderful,” he’d promised his father. “Like the song you used to sing me. A place where men can come to emancipate.”  
And Phil had believed him, and wished him good luck, and waved goodbye.  
He’d said, if Wil ever needed him, to just send him a message. They didn’t need to say goodnight. Phil would always be there for his son’s long evenings. 

Judging from the bags under Wilbur’s eyes, he really should’ve taken up on Phil’s offer. 

Wilbur stepped closer to the button. “Have you heard the song, on the walls?”

“You don’t have to do this. You’ve won! Why can’t you just win?”

Wilbur’s hand hovered over the button. One push, and everything would finally be over. 

“There used to be a saying, by a traitor. Perhaps you’ve heard of Eret?”

“Please, Wil, don’t do it. Come here. Please, son, it’s okay-“

Wilbur’s hand slammed down.

“It was never meant to be.”

“My unfinished symphony, Phil. Forever unfinished.”

Phil was holding his son in his arms, his wings shielding them both from the blast. He could tell they were in tatters now, his primaries smoking. It would be a miracle if he was ever able to fly again. 

Wilbur lurched out of his father’s reach and grabbed Phil’s sword that he’d abandoned earlier near the entrance. He stumbled forward, a crazed smile dancing across his face, holding the sword in front of him. 

“Kill me. Phil, kill me. Stab me.”

Phil staggered backwards in horror. Wilbur, gods, what had happened to him?

“Kill me. Kill me. Phil.”

“But-“

“Stab me. Kill. Killza.”

“You’re my son!” Phil yelled it, he screamed it in Wilbur’s face, torn wings spread behind him. Please, anything to get Wilbur to calm down, anything to get that horrible leer off of his face, anything-

Wilbur was holding the sword by the blade now, the sharp diamond sinking into his fingers and into his gloved palms, waving the handle in his fathers face. 

“Kill me.”

Phil took the sword with shaky hands. Wilbur lurched back over to him, hands bloody, and grabbed him in a hug. Phil gritted his teeth as the sword sunk almost up to the hilt below his son’s rib cage. A sharp breath escaped Wilbur’s lips, and a tear rolled down his father’s face. 

Gently, so so gently, Phil lowered his poor son to the ground in his arms, and sobbed. 

“Why? Why couldn’t you just win?”

Wilbur merely smiled back up at his father, the insane grin gone from his features, replaced by a soft smile. He was at peace, wrapped in his father’s arms and wings, small and safe and innocent. 

“Will you sing me the song, please, the one you sung when I was a child?”

Phil nodded and with a shaky breath, began to sing. 

Well this place is real,  
You needn’t fret,  
With Wilbur-

Phil tried to wipe the tears from his eyes, but they wouldn’t stop.

Wilbur smiled up at him, eyes closing for the last time.

“Thank you, dad.  
Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed! sorry i’ve been gone for so long :)  
> leave a comment if you’d like to see me write abt something else, and go check out my other work Finding Peace if you want!


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